Birth Right
by Mantinas
Summary: A psychologist deals with an odd lunatic.


Birth Right

Mantineus-I'm more Mr. Briggs, than the I this time.

Disclaimer-I own nothing!

I

"I'm gonna burn."

That's when I knew it got really bad. He was always a little nuts, but that. Saying it with an innocent smile and certainty. It sent chills up my spine and I experienced a fear I have not faced in my entire life.

It was at this point that I realized that he really was beyond saving.

How he got like this, god only knows. Before he was admitted to my sanitarium I checked his background. It was clean. His mother and father were decently sane, as were his grandparents and siblings. I checked hospital files and came up with nothing out of the ordinary. Colds, flu, and a few scrapes. Normal for any boy.

Upon his arrival I waited in my office, glancing at the anniversary clock that adorned my desk religiously. Despite it's bad memory, I couldn't stand to throw it away, so in my office it has stayed. Poor Lucinda.

With annoyance, I watched as an orderly struggled to seat him in a chair. He was antsy and, from what I gathered, he felt he needed to be somewhere else.

"Hello," I said gently, hoping to direct his attention on me so that the orderly could strap him in the chair.

For my protection as well as his. On the ride here he was without a straitjacket and chipped his nails and teeth trying to escape and then from trying to fatally tear his wrists open with the aforementioned parts. God only knew what he would try to do to me if I stepped out of his line.

Finally, we were alone. He thrashed about for a minute before I began.

"Hello," I began. "I'm your new doctor."

From there he stared at me with eyes of steel. It unnerved me; it was like he was looking through me and saw my soul. He kept staring and my psychologist's nerve was faltering. Mentally I was panicking and I wondered if, due to his stoic stare, if he was looking deeper than my outer appearance of fear.

My childhood flashed before my eyes.

"So doc," He began, his voice was gravely and deep. "What's your first question?"

This took me by surprise that I had to clear my throat, tap my papers back into place, and start again.

"Yes, well. You see, I've checked your records, Mr.-"

"Don't say it!" He screamed, face twisting into pure, unimaginable fear. "They might not know I'm here!"

"Who's 'they'?"

His snapped. As if the fearful shell broke and revealed this manic, demented smile. It seemed sadistic and menacing, yet what he said was pure jibber-jabber.

"Them, doc!" He said. His face changed again; he was stumped. "You mean you don't know, doc? Surely you've encountered others like me."

"No," I agreed. "I'm afraid I haven't."

He began to laugh. It was long and insane. Yet, as abruptly as it began, it ended and he could have passed for a sane person within that silent second.

"Then give up this case, doc." He said, a chuckle escaping his throat. "Give it to someone who knows!"

If only I listened.

II

As the sessions progressed, I admit to feeling a slight disheartenment. He would reveal nothing of his condition other than ramblings like before. Though, one day he did something of note.

He was rocking back and forth in a big, exaggerated way. He would swing forward, mumble something then swing back and shout a made up word.

For example, on his first forward rock he would mumble something akin to a sneeze then shout "Fhtagn!" Yog-soth "Fhtagn!" Oz-soth "Fhtagn!"

He then began to say another strange word, of which I surmised were names, when he stopped. He got so far as "Nya" when he began to giggle like a lunatic and rock his torso rapidly while repeating that strange made up word.

"Fhtagn! Fhtagn! Fhtagn!"

"Mr.-"

He began to scream as if in agony. From previous sessions, I knew it was most likely from my trying to utter his name. But, unlike previous times where he would instantly stop, he began to sob. His face flushed crimson, his eyes became slits from whence tears began to flow.

"The Necronomicon!" He screamed, his sobs becoming more intense. "De…Destroy….Destroy it!"

"What?"

"Destroy the Necronomicon!" He shouted, he looked a mixture of agony and rage. "Destroy it! Destroy that damn book!"

Five minutes after that outburst he stopped. Despite the still flushed face and teary eyes, he looked as if it never happened. And with that deep, gravelly voice he spoke.

"Destroy it doc." The intense glare he gave me sent me flashes of hellfire and promises of pain and horror the likes of which I'll never comprehend.

"Destroy it. Don't look at it, don't read it, and-whatever you do-Don't look at the back page!"

Two sessions after that he seemed to follow back into our usual routine. That is, until our third. It was then that he said what I knew was the truth. He was gone to the sane world. And despite our other methods, they would not be enough to bring him back.

"I'm gonna burn." He said, then, with an exaggerated nod he began. "Yep. I'm gonna burn that damn book."

"And why would you burn it?" I asked.

He clammed up.

Miskatonic University. I have been there, of course, as a student of psychology. Hoping to better myself in understanding the people around me; a curse of a recluse, I'm afraid. Though I have never heard of such a book, my curiosity had gotten the better of me and I sent a letter to the Miskatonic Library.

A few days later a package arrived for me with a note. The Librarian was slightly against me looking at it, but considering my profession, she allowed it. But I was to return it within a timely manner. I did not flip through it. I cannot explain why, but I felt a sense of doom upon glancing at the ancient tome.

But, at least, I had something to talk about in our next session.

III

"I have the book." I started.

His eyes picked up. He smiled like a child at Christmas morning before unwrapping his gifts. He started to shake the chair he was chained to. Rapidly he asked questions like "You didn't read it did you?" and "Did you burn it? If you did, can I see the ashes?"

"No, I didn't read it." I confessed. "Nor," I placed the book on my desk. "Have I burned it; as you can see."

"Burn it!" He shouted. "Burn it!"

His eyes grew wide in fear.

"They'll be coming! They sense it's presence! It's an unholy beacon! Burn it! Burn it and destroy their only chance for this world!"

"Not yet." I said. "Not until you tell me why such a normal man would succumb to madness without any reason."

His emotions changed from frantic to anger in a flash. He started to growl and shake the chair more violently. Either it is due to the cases similar to a grandmother gaining superhuman strength when their grandchild is in danger, or perhaps they did not switch the chains and after dealing with his constant mood swings, they gave. Either way, he was free.

Free and wild, like a bull, he charged towards me. I don't know what compelled me to throw the book, but I did. I threw it before he was upon it. And I know, right there, I made a mistake.

For when it landed, it landed on the last page where an artist's rendition of the writer was present. I stared upon it, mouth agape.

"No!" He shouted. "It's all over now." He began to sob. "I didn't want to do this!" He then sparked up, looking hopeful. "Wait! It's not too late! You can still reject it! Reject the responsibility and let humanity thrive!"

"What are you talking about?" I managed to say.

My mind was beginning to form an explanation as to why the famous "Mad Arab" looked like me.

"Yes, traitor, what are you talking about?"

"Nyar…"He cracked up. "Nyar…" He chuckled like a mad man.

The new comer was dressed in Ancient Egyptian robes and crown. He was magnificent and regal in appearance. But another sense took over and I wanted to run away from him as quickly as possible. But something caught my eye. Without the help of hand or wind, the pages began to flip back until it reached its goal. The page prior had a picture of him as he was seen now. To the right were the bold words:

**Nyarlathotep: The Crawling Chaos**

He turned towards me. Within those cold black eyes I could see a swirling mass, similar to a galaxy, only different. And, if I strained my ears, I swore I heard the mad playing of deranged flautists.

"Do forgive me, Abdul." He said. "But…"

"That's not my name." I began. "My name is…"

"Not important." He said, cutting me off. "What is, is who you were and who you are meant to be. Abdul Hazred, the Mad Arab and priest to both Cthulhu and Yog-Sothoth."

Flashes of desert expanses flew by within my mind. A lone man walked alone the desert, walking through an old, abandoned city that once belonged to a reptilian race of humanoids. How he dedicated his remaining years(which was not many) to write the book of which they wanted and who's information he gained through dreams and through physical means.

He died and his soul became one with Yog-Sothoth until thirty-four years ago. I was plagued with nightmares and horrible sights that now no longer fill me with dread. Though what my parents did still leaves a mark. But then again, it happened to Abdul, too.(1)

"What is needed of me, Oh mighty Nyarlathotep?"

"No!" He shouted, but Nyarlathotep shot him an angry glare.

"I will deal with you later." He turned and faced me once more. "But for now, Abdul must be briefed on what is expected of him."

You have written The Necronomicon rather well. But, They now wish for you to write one more piece to it. This one will explain what will happen once They are awakened and how to stop the stars from changing again. You'll receive these in dreams once more. But this time, you'll receive help in the form of Mr. Briggs, there."

He cowered in fear of his own surname.

"That is, if you need help."

"No," I said. "I shall write this myself. Besides, you called him a traitor. He is not fit to help write such a glorious book."

"No!" He shouted. He had a letter opener in his hands. He was digging through my desk while we were talking. "He will not write the missing chapter!"

He lunged at me, but was stopped by a loud buzzing sound.

"I'd run if I were you." Nyarlathotep said.

Mr. Briggs did not heed his warning, and lunged at me once more. A Mi-go crashed through the window and grabbed him with his crab-like claws and whisked him out of my office and the sanitarium all together, being prepared for his trip to Yuggoth.

"Do not disappoint me." He said and vanished.

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1) I know, according to historians, that Abdul Hazred was actually Lovecraft. But, since he's a made up character, why not give him a made up childhood? I am not implying that he was beaten as a child!


End file.
